The Top 10 People I'd Like To See Disappear From My Sports TV

Back in 2004 I was preparing to go to the Summer Olympics in Greece as a reporter for the Fort Worth Star-Telegram. In preparation for what was potentially a hostile, dangerous, terroristy, post-9/11 environment, all Knight-Ridder newspaper chain employees headed overseas were required to undergo special security training. CPR. Dressing a wound. Minimizing the effects of a bomb blast. Dangling participles. The works.

At our summit in Washington, D.C. we were integrated into groups with reporters from all over the country, including the Philadelphia Inquirer.

During one session we paired up with a partner. The exercise trained us what to do if we happened upon a fallen colleague who was face down and not breathing. First, of course, roll them over onto their back.

But as I'm trying to turn the supposedly comatose Stephen A. Smith I sorta hit a speed bump. As in, something's in the way, preventing me from getting him onto his back. I push, Push, PUSH, but can get him no farther than his side.

Flabbergasted, Stephen A. "awakens" from the almost dead to give me/us an assist by removing the impediment.

"I know da problem," he says, producing from his back pocket and then shaking in a condescending way a double-stuffed wallet that would make George Costanza wince. "Ouwwull dis money."

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